


On the Banks of Loch Lomond

by ThatWriterKid



Series: Place Without Plot (Domestic Sketches of Aziraphale and Crowley from a Bored Grad Student) [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Driving, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, Light Angst, Light Polyamory, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:55:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWriterKid/pseuds/ThatWriterKid
Summary: The angel was damp, and his curls were losing their charm, but he squeezed the demon’s hand and refrained from complaining. Normally he wouldn’t. Normally he’d whine and Crowley would comfort him.Not this time. Crowley looked a thousand miles away. He was staring out over the water, clinging to Aziraphale’s hand like his life depended on it. Like an anchor, Aziraphale would guess. He knew that look. They both did.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Place Without Plot (Domestic Sketches of Aziraphale and Crowley from a Bored Grad Student) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633759
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	On the Banks of Loch Lomond

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I wrote this as a Valentine's Day fic, but somehow that never actually made it into the work itself. So.
> 
> I went to Loch Lomond a few weeks ago. Spoiler alert, we were the tourist group: no regrets. It's beautiful and misty and has a dark history that predates the Jacobite Rebellion of the 1740s. Back in 1692 (after another, different Jacobite Rebellion), because they were a few days late pledging loyalty to the current monarchs. [More information if you're interested.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Massacre_of_Glencoe)
> 
> [The Jacobite Rebellion that Crowley fought in is this one.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacobite_rising_of_1745)
> 
> And I suggest you listen to [this](https://youtu.be/feLT7Btuqpc) or [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gb8AGuD2uOI) while you read, starting at the point when they get out of the car. (Links go to some really lovely renditions of the song.)

“It was clear when we left.” Aziraphale shot a stern look out the window. It didn’t have the desired effect—something he blamed on the highly-irresponsible speed at which Crowley took the next bend. The clouds remained heavy in the sky, threatening rain, and Crowley had the gall to _laugh_ at him.

“It’s Scotland, angel. What did you expect?”

“Your little device said it would be _clear_!”

“My _phone_ , Aziraphale, just call it a—”

“ _Watch the road—_ ”

“It’s _fine_.” The Bentley took the turn like a champion. Crowley would not admit that he relished the way the angel grabbed his arm in panic—Aziraphale would _stop_ if he knew why Crowley liked to scare him a little. It never occurred to him that Aziraphale overdid it because he liked the physical contact.

Engaged or not, some habits were hard to break.

The road to Loch Lomond was shorter with Crowley driving, but it was still long, and it was beautiful even at high speeds. Aziraphale stole his partner’s phone to try and capture the landscape: mountains jutting over the water, low-hanging skies, black and slender trees. The mist settled into the valley; the shores of the loch were low and dark in the winter afternoon. Wind whipped between the Munros, buffeting the Bentley in fits and gusts, and as the rain began to spatter against the windows the angel swore under his breath.

“Oh, _damn_ this weather.”

“Why are _you_ so worried about it?” Crowley ignored the road in favor of eyeing his fiancé. “I chose this one.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Eyes on the _road_.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t want your day ruined by bad weather, all right? _Crowley—_ ” The Bentley slipped through the one-way bridge before the oncoming driver had a chance to blink. All cars escaped with their paint jobs intact. “You seemed to think this was important, that’s all.”

“It is important.” Crowley couldn’t hide the quirk of his lips. “The rain’s not so bad, though. Sets the mood.”

“For what, exactly?”

Crowley didn’t answer, just signaled— _for you, angel—_ and pulled off into a car park. It was hardly a notable location: the park, a couple bleak picnic tables, a building with toilets, a small coffee shack. The water was high today after all the rain. A pier which was ostensibly meant to extend _over_ the loch now extended _into_ it, freshwater waves lapping over the planks, and a group of tourists were running amok atop the drowning dock. Some were taking off their shoes, walking ankle-deep into the more sunken corners.

Crowley and Aziraphale bought hot chocolates—Crowley produced two reusable takeaway cups, under the premise of it being inconvenient for the baristas, which Aziraphale did not buy for a moment—and walked along the shore, away from the dock, away from the tourists. The laughter and chatter vanished, muted in foggy rain. Crowley’s hand slipped into Aziraphale’s without comment, which was unusual. The angel was damp, and his curls were losing their charm, but he squeezed the demon’s hand and refrained from complaining. Normally he wouldn’t. Normally he’d whine and Crowley would comfort him.

Not this time. Crowley looked a thousand miles away. He was staring out over the water, clinging to Aziraphale’s hand like his life depended on it. Like an anchor, Aziraphale would guess. He knew that look. They both did.

“When were you here last?” Aziraphale asked. He tugged Crowley lightly, drawing him to one of the picnic tables. They sat there together and Aziraphale waited for an answer.

“Seventeen-forties,” said Crowley. “Just after.”

“Ah.”

There was silence for a bit. Aziraphale kissed the back of his hand. Crowley took a deep breath and extracted his fingers. He pulled away from the angel.

“Why—”

“I was here for the uprising,” said Crowley.

“I know,” said Aziraphale. “You were… involved. Spent a few years gallivanting around the Highlands. Fomenting, I assumed.”

“Mmhm.” Crowley took another breath. They didn’t _need_ to breathe. Crowley was nervous. Testing something, maybe. “Ostensibly. If I’m honest, I was trying to defend someone.”

“I’m listening, my dear.” Across the way, on the sunken dock, the tourists had produced a Scottish flag. They were posing: one with a leg up on a post, waving it proudly against the backdrop of Munros. One giving a peace sign. One giving devil horns. All posing for photographs on telephones.

“You know I love you,” said Crowley.

“I do,” said Aziraphale. “I also know we’ve both loved others. I haven’t told you all of mine. I assume you haven’t told me all of yours. I won’t be jealous, Crowley. I told you, that isn’t a part of ourselves we need to relinquish, even in the future.”

Crowley took his hand again. The tension went out of Aziraphale’s shoulders. An aversion to touch was not uncommon in his demon—in fact, it was more normal than not—but it still hurt when Crowley pulled away. An insecurity of habit, even if Aziraphale knew better.

“Hendry MacDonald,” said Crowley. “His clan didn’t fight for Charlie, but—we can’t see the future. You know that.”

“I’m well aware,” said Aziraphale.

“Thought Charlie was winning, up til the end there. Highlanders, they _slaughtered_ the English up until Culloden. Smart money was on the Young Pretender.”

“It was,” said Aziraphale. “I do remember. I mean. Not _remember_ , I was in London. But I do remember the news. I remember that I didn’t see you for a few years, and when you got back you got absolutely _plastered_ for a week and avoided the news despite my best efforts to ask why.”

“That’s right,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “If you were trying to keep him safe, then, the smart suggestion would have been to join the Jacobites. They wouldn’t have been kind to loyalists, if they’d won.”

Crowley nodded.

“You were at Culloden,” said Aziraphale.

“We were.”

“And he died there.”

“No,” said Crowley. “Not that lucky.”

On the sunken dock, the tourists had begun to sing. Crowley was hit with a strong wave of annoyance from the baristas in the coffee shack— _all_ the tourists sang this song, they heard it a dozen times a day. That didn’t make the timing any better, and it didn’t make Crowley hate the song any less. They were American, too. The Scottish accents were not good.

_By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,  
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond…_

“I didn’t get discorporated,” said Crowley. “He didn’t die. We both made it through the battle. Literal miracle on my end. Beelzebub would have had my _head_ if they’d known. But after—it wasn’t like they just let the survivors scatter, angel. They hunted us down. We played dead on the battlefield until we realized they were stabbing bodies through, making sure…”

Aziraphale winced.

_Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae,  
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond._

“Yeah. So we tried to run, they found us. Captured, somehow, not killed immediately.” Crowley’s fingers were white in Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale ran a thumb along his knuckles, quiet, listening. “They told me they were taking him back. I wasn’t one of their clan, though—wore another tartan—and they took me off to _question_ me about my loyalties—”

_O ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,  
And I'll be in Scotland a'fore ye…_

“—and last time I saw him, I told him I’d meet him here, come find him.” A pause. “Not _here_ , not in a car park. Island over- over in the west, old clan grave site. Grisly but notable. Anyway. Had a pact.”

Aziraphale knew how this story ended. In the best of cases, a human would grow old and die, eventually—but the human beings they loved never seemed to make it to old age. Aziraphale and Crowley, as domestic as they were, tended to have a certain inspirational influence. Passion had never lent itself well to a long life.

_But me and my true love will never meet again,  
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond._

“I got here eventually. Easy enough to get away. But Hendry never made it back to the clan.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“I _hate_ this song.” Crowley let go of the angel again, but this time it was to bury his head in his hands, compose himself a little. “You’d think we’d stop missing them after a while.”

“Grief isn’t something that fades with time,” said Aziraphale. “Even for us. It comes upon us less frequently, perhaps.”

“You’d have liked Hendry.”

“Oh?”

“He was a storyteller. We were lovers for a year or two, and I never heard him tell a story twice. Fables, fairy tales, histories. Man was a living book. And he had these _curls…_ ”

“You have a type,” said Aziraphale, smiling.

“Tell the whole world, why don’t you.”

“You know, I’ve no reason not to anymore.” Aziraphale nudged him. “Maybe I _will_.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” But Crowley was smiling again. The tourists were filtering back to their busses, just as the rain was starting to let up. Aziraphale wiped the water from his face, then offered his handkerchief to Crowley. Crowley wiped his cheeks. Rain, of course. Possibly not _only_ rain, but they could both pretend. Clouds were parting. Sunlight beamed through blue cracks in the grey; the water came alive with reflection. The mist began to clear.

Crowley would never admit to a feeling of closure, but there it was, settling into his chest like a nightingale. He and his true love sat side by side, looking out at the banks of Loch Lomond.


End file.
